


A Matter of Time

by MirrorMystic



Category: The Invisible Library - Genevieve Cogman
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, F/M, Multi, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 23:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10175171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: (Warning: contains spoilers up through The Burning Page.)The Library is an island, untouched by time. They say that there, you can live forever, but your wounds will never heal. Irene takes some time to think about the people closest to her- about those who stayed, those who left, and those who came back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Invisible Library got its hooks in me and wouldn't let me go, so much so that it did what no other series could- make me sign up for an AO3 account. I wanted to explore the concept of the Library's timelessness, and how it can keep people trapped in the present. This is my first time doing fanfic in a long time. I hope you all enjoy the read.

 

~*~

Kai marched down the corridor with his head held high, the vastness of the Library sprawling out around him. The way he walked, he made a grubby peacoat and pageboy cap look like high fashion. He was a prince, and proud of that fact.

Which is why, despite everything, the first thought that ran petulantly through his head was ‘a prince should not have to ask for directions’.

Leading Kai down the hall was a young Librarian with boyishly short hair, in midnight blue robes that shimmered like the night sky. This earnest young junior was, for the moment, his princely entourage. It was a start, at least.

It occurred to Kai that he’d been so preoccupied with finding Irene that he may have overlooked a few pleasantries.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes, ser?”

“I, ah,” Kai cleared his throat. “I never got your name.”

“Morgan, ser.”

“Morgan,” Kai echoed, a twinge of distaste curling his lips. “After Morgan le Fay, no doubt.”

“No, ser, actually,” Morgan said, bright and cheerful in exactly the way Li Ming wasn’t. “Morgan is just my name.”

“You realize Librarians are meant to use aliases, right?”

“Oh, it’s alright. It’s hardly the name I was _born_ with.”

Kai shrugged, before being ushered through an archway into another sprawling wing of the Library. To his surprise, they emerged onto a cobblestone street. Here, the Library’s ubiquitous bookshelves parted to reveal a pub, sitting incongruously in the corner of the room.

When Irene said she’d be ‘at the pub’, Kai hadn’t entirely believed her.

“Here we are!” Morgan chirped. Kai was examining the pub’s windows, the sign above the door, reaching out and touching the wooden columns as if to confirm that they were real.

“Thank you,” Kai said, finally. Morgan bowed.

“It’s an honor to serve my senior Librarians,” Morgan said.

Kai fidgeted at such deference, lifting a hand. “Don’t… Don’t give me so much credit. I’m still in training, just like you.”

“Just imagine what you could do when you’re fully-fledged!” Morgan all but squealed. “THE Kai. THE Irene! My mentor’s told me so much, and, of course, news gets around-”

Kai pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please. We’re… we’re not… all that.”

“Of course, of course,” Morgan nodded, struggling to put a lid on their own excitement. “Humility is the mark of a true hero.”

“That’s... not _exactly_ what I’m saying.”

“Thank you for this, ser,” Morgan beamed, and it occurred to Kai that it should be the other way around. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”

Kai nodded, waving Morgan off as they disappeared into the Library sprawl.

~*~

The interior of the pub was dark, gloomy, and improbably dust-free despite how little it seemed to be used. Irene was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of brandy by the light of a single lamp. She cut a striking figure, half-hidden in the gloom. Though even she couldn’t help the quizzical look she gave out the door at Morgan’s departing form.

“Who was that?”

“A _fan_ ,” Kai said, drawing up beside her, “if you can believe that.”

“Hopefully one more genuine than Penemue and her lot,” Irene said acidly. Kai shifted in his seat.

“What sort of library has its own pub?” He said at last, eager to change subjects.

Irene shrugged. “What sort of library has its own dormitory?”

“Point,” Kai nodded.

“It’s not like it makes much difference,” Irene said, holding her glass up to the lamplight and swirling the caramel liquid about. “Time stands still in the Library. Nobody here needs to eat or drink. Nobody can even get drunk. So, really, the only thing this brandy’s good for is the taste.”

Kai watched as Irene took a sip, her expression clouding. “Bitter?” He asked.

Irene looked out over the rim of her glass, gazing at something worlds away.

“Yes.”

Kai exhaled. Emotional support was hardly his area of expertise. Maybe if Irene had a literal river of melancholy flowing through her veins, he’d have some power over it. But right now, the only spirit in the room was sitting in Irene’s glass, and it didn’t seem any more capable of lifting her mood.

“How are you feeling?” Kai said lamely. Irene gave him a withering look, one that said ‘I’m drinking alone in a dark room and that by itself should speak volumes’, but it still felt like something Kai should ask.

“Idle,” Irene muttered, clinking her glass down on the bar. “Useless.”

“You saved the Library,” Kai offered. “I’d say you’ve earned a vacation.”

“It’s no _vacation_ if they don’t give you a choice,” Irene grumbled. “Then it’s just a _suspension_. The Elders didn’t suggest I take time off for my health, Kai. They _made_ me take time off, just so they’d have time to take inventory without me stirring up any more hornet’s nests.”

“Or spider’s nests, as it were.”

“ _Thank you_ , Kai.”

Irene slid her glass away, crossing her arms on the counter and laying her head down. She was still staring at that far-off place behind the bar, her eyes distant.

“What are you thinking about?” Kai asked.

“Alberich,” Irene lied.

“You’re thinking about that Fae woman, aren’t you?” Kai hissed. Try as he might, those words, from his mouth, could only ever be an accusation.

Irene slapped her palms on the counter.

“She had a name, Kai,” she said through gritted teeth. “Her name was Zayanna. She saved me from Alberich. She _died_ for me.”

Kai crossed his arms, haughtiness edging into his tone. “Irene, perhaps you don’t recall, but she also tried to _kill_ us.”

Irene met Kai’s gaze, and saw the pride of dragons swimming within. She wasn’t going to back down.

“Kai, Zayanna _also_ helped me rescue you from Venice.”

“Again: _tried to kill you_.” Kai huffed. “I don’t understand why you’re trying to make excuses for a _Fae_!”

“Because…” Irene faltered. “...she made good in the end. She thought we were friends.”

“Fae don’t have _friends_ ,” Kai snapped. “They have supporting actors, stagehands, pawns, pets! _Maybe_ she saved your life out of the goodness of her heart, or _maybe_ it was just a whim! _Maybe_ helping to save me in Venice was just a flight of fancy, like _anything_ a Fae does! They’re fickle, unreliable, untrustworthy- it’s in their nature, Irene. You know this.”

“Like being obstinate and pigheaded is in yours?” Irene bit back, brittle.

Kai hesitated. So firm was he in his speech, so full of conviction, that his eyes had revealed his true nature, and shone with red light. And Irene stood there, meeting his gaze in defiance, cast in the glow of draconic crimson.

Kai took a deep breath.

“Although,” Kai said, the fire fading from his eyes. “She did save you, in the end. I’m grateful for that, at least.”

“She saved you, too,” Irene said softly.

“ _You_ saved me, Irene,” Kai said. “Zayanna just held the door for you.”

Irene sighed, in a manner that said the conversation was over. This isn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want people throwing themselves into danger on her account. She didn’t want Kai telling her who deserved her sympathy or her grief. And she certainly didn’t want this brandy, a Library facsimile that failed to chase the ghosts from her head and left only bittersweetness on her tongue.

“I need… time,” Irene murmured. Time, and books, were the two things the Library had in abundance.

“Time won’t heal you,” Kai said. “It’ll scar over, and take the sting out of the pain. But you’ll still carry the wound. You’ll still carry the weight.”

Irene sniffed. “Where did you hear that?”

“Where do you think?” Kai shrugged. “I read it in a book.”

Irene made her way to the door. Her hand lingered on the doorknob.

“I’m taking a walk,” she said.

Kai nodded.

“Irene,” he said, as she opened the door. She turned to him, and he met her eyes- eyes that carried so much weight, for so many years. So much history. So much memory. The Library brand across her back overshadowed any scars her body might bear, but in those eyes…

“Irene,” Kai echoed, remembering where he was. “Just… remember to come back up for air.”

Irene smiled, but it was a tired smile.

“Says a dragon who can never drown.”

Irene lingered in the doorway just long enough for Kai to wonder if she wanted him to follow; but by the time he’d decided, she was already gone.

~*~

_“It has been said, ‘Time heals all wounds’. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”_

_\- Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy_

~*~

Where the Library was stillness and solitude, Vale’s London was hustle and bustle. Irene lost herself in the swell of evening traffic, carried along in the tide of bodies. The sun was just beginning to set, a smoky coal behind the perpetual smog, and the people around Irene drew up scarves and veils to keep out the sharp, acrid smell of the city.

Irene took a deep breath all the same, filling herself with the familiar musk of the city. A carriage trundled past, hissing steam into the air.

Not two days ago, the Library was on the verge of catastrophe. But in this world, it was just business as usual. In the grand scheme of things, would anybody notice if the Librarians were no longer scurrying around backstage? This world would keep on turning, along with the countless alternates.

The world would survive without the Library.

Without her.

Irene shook the thought away. It had been two days since she’d confronted Alberich in his phantom domain, two days since she’d summoned a conflagration to save the Library from being annihilated. It had been two days since Zayanna had betrayed her, tried to kill her, and then turned right around and saved Irene’s life. And it had been two days since Kai and Vale had pulled her out of the flames.

Two days, but the smoke hadn’t cleared. A dark mood had taken Irene ever since, both looming above her and settling in her stomach, like the bitter dregs in the bottom of a teacup. Part of her felt utterly relieved that the Library was safe, and proud that she was responsible for its survival. Part of her wanted to mourn, wanted to cry for Zayanna, who died for her, and for the books that she had to destroy in order to save the Library as a whole. Part of her felt guilty for holding Zayanna’s life on the same level as some stuffy books. And part of her felt that Kai was right, that she shouldn’t spare any grief or sympathy for someone who tried to kill her, a fickle Faerie she couldn’t even call a proper friend.

Irene rode that train of thought until she reached Vale’s lodgings. She paused on the steps, gazing up at the door. Maybe here, she’d find some respite from all these irksome ‘feelings’. And if not, at least Vale would know the best local place to get a drink.

“Excuse me!”

Irene stopped on the step, blinking. There was an androgynous youth standing before her, wearing a peacoat, trousers, and pageboy cap. The same one she’d seen a few hours ago, in the Library.

“Are you… Irene Winters?” They asked, bubbling with excitement. “THE Irene Winters?”

“In _this_ world, at least,” Irene said dryly, unable to match their enthusiasm.

“Might I ask a question, ma’am?” Their voice carried an Irish lilt.

“Go on.”

“How, um…” They smiled sheepishly. “How do I look?”

Irene looked them over. Boyishly short hair, bright eyes, uncovered mouth. She raised and lowered one shoulder.

“A little incongruous,” she said lightly. “The pageboy cap won’t be invented until next century, and you look a little young to be wearing a navy coat. But it’s hardly the worst look around, junior…?”

“Morgan, ser,” they replied, undimmed. “I’d thought to take after your own junior, ma’am, but I suppose Ser Kai can make anything look good.”

“That he can,” Irene shrugged. “Listen, Morgan…”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Did you… _follow_ me here?”

“Oh!” Morgan flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, no, no, that’s not- I’m here with my senior, actually, just taking in the sights, getting to know the area, you know. It was just happy chance that I stumbled across the Librarian-in-Residence, and such an illustrious one at that. Irene Winters, hero of the hour! Now, is that after Irene Adler or Milady de Winter? If- If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love to have you, that is, it would be an honor if you would sign my copy of The Student Librarian’s Handbook-”

Irene held up her hands, grimacing. “Morgan, I’m flattered, but this is… this is a little much-”

“Miss Winters?”

Irene looked up. Vale was standing in his doorway, a bundle of mail tucked under his arm.

“Is that you causing all that racket on my doorstep?” Vale asked.

Irene breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t think she’d ever been so happy to see Vale, and that included him flying in on Kai’s back to pull her out of a raging inferno.

“Yes, it’s me,” Irene exhaled. “May I come in?”

“Of course, of course.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Morgan,” Irene said, casting an apologetic glance over her shoulder. “I need to speak with Mr. Vale.”

“Peregrine Vale?” Morgan squealed, starry-eyed. “The _Great Detective_?!”

Vale gave the youth a polite nod, ushering Irene inside and shutting the door before Morgan’s giddy squealing could accidentally summon the police.

~*~

Vale’s study would not have looked out of place in the Library itself. Quiet, lamplit, blissfully bereft of squealing, starry-eyed juniors, and, of course, filled with books. Vale hurriedly cleared a stack of newspapers from a couch so that Irene would have somewhere to sit. He leafed through the stack, before tossing them unceremoniously onto another pile strewn across the floor.

“I hope you’ll forgive the disarray,” Vale said. “Entertaining guests is not exactly my strong suit.”

“It’s quite alright,” Irene said. “Honestly, it feels just like home.”

Vale nodded. “That Library of yours is quite the sight. I would have loved to stay longer, browse a few more books, but you know how it is here. Work, work, work. Not two days away and now I’m back in it up to my ears. Who was your friend?”

“A colleague,” Irene shrugged. “And a fan, if you can believe that.”

“The sort of excitement you get up to, I’m surprised you don’t have more,” Vale said. “Tea? Maybe something stronger?”

“No, thank you,” Irene said. “You seem well,” she added.

What she wanted to say was that Vale seemed... different. Lively. Animated. He no longer had the haunted look in his eyes, nor the hollowness of his cheeks, the face of a man plagued by nightmares. But there was still a manic undercurrent to his energy, as if he was eager not to dwell on anything overlong.

To his credit, Vale admitted as much.

“There’s always more work to be done,” he said, sweeping his arm around the piles and piles of notes and newspapers strewn about. “More clues to find, more crooks to catch, more would-be criminal masterminds to put in their place, which is behind bars. How are you faring? That was quite the mess we pulled you out of. Literally, at the end.”

Irene exhaled, leaning forward and resting her chin on her latticed fingers.

“I’ve been thinking,” she finally managed.

“About that Fae woman?” Vale asked mildly, but it still sounded like an accusation.

“Her name was Zayanna,” Irene snapped.

“Zayanna, then,” Vale said. “Not about Alberich? I suppose that’s understandable. Despite the danger posed by the traitor Alberich, you have foiled him in the past. But as for Zayanna trading her life for yours, well, I imagine that would be somewhat distressing.”

“Must you be so insufferably clinical?” Irene muttered acidly.

“Miss Winters, I am a detective. Professional detachment is a matter of course.”

“Of course,” Irene echoed. Vale awkwardly cleared his throat.

“I’m only stating, objectively, the dissonance involved with-”

“If you’re just going to tell me to ‘spare my pity’,” Irene hissed, “then Kai already did that.”

Vale sniffed.

“There’s no love lost between Mister Strongrock and the Fae,” he said. “Nor between the Fae and I. That being said…”

Vale turned and met Irene’s eyes, his expression softening.

“I’m sure Strongrock is more concerned with how it has you out of sorts, no matter how he feels about the Fae.”

There was a moment there- one approaching tenderness. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone.

“If you were to ask my advice,” Vale continued, “I would say to simply get back to work. A new day, a new project. New work to be done. If one can focus on doing, rather than thinking, than sooner or later you’ll have forgotten the gloom. If you can simply find a new focus, then your mind will be too busy to go wandering around in the dark.”

Irene sniffed. “Where did you hear that?”

“In a book,” Vale shrugged. “Your Library had quite the selection. Like I said, I would have loved to linger, but duty calls.”

Irene sighed. Slowly, she got to her feet.

“Thank you, Vale,” she said, eyes downcast.

“I hope I was able to provide you with a solution,” Vale said simply.

“Some advice, Vale, from a friend?” Irene smiled, but it was a tired smile. “Sometimes, people want sympathy, not solutions.”

“...I see,” Vale said, his lips curling into a frown. “Is… Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Winters?”

“One thing,” Irene said. “Where can I get a drink?”

~*~

_“A mind without purpose will wander in dark places.”_

_\- Dan Abnett_

~*~

Vale gave Irene directions to his pub of choice, all the while bearing the quizzical look of a man who’s realized his faux pas but was nonetheless happy to be left to his own devices. Eager to get back to work, no doubt. Irene should have known. Vale was always good for a listening ear, but his was hardly a shoulder to cry on.

Irene didn’t know if she even felt like crying. She just didn’t want to feel anything. Hopefully this pub would be up to the task.

Despite Vale’s glowing recommendation, the pub itself didn’t look all that special. The signboard above the door declared the pub to be ‘The Stone’s Throw’, which Irene had to admit was a hair more creative than ‘The Verbing Animal’. But there was something here, something that caught in the air and prickled beneath Irene’s skin.

Maybe it was fate, Irene thought. Or maybe it was the onset of a buzz. She’d settle for that.

The interior of the Stone’s Throw was subdued, by pub standards. Irene took a private table on the second floor overlooking the main space, settling in with a glass snifter and a bottle of brandy she’d paid for upfront. She poured herself a glass, lifting it up in her hand and watching the dark amber liquid catch the lamplight.

“Is this seat taken?” asked a familiar voice.

Irene sighed, before draining her glass in a single, regrettable, gulp. It burned on the way down.

“If I say ‘yes’, is there any chance you won’t just take it anyway?”

The other woman took the seat opposite Irene, by way of an answer, and Irene ruefully refilled her glass.

“Hello, Irene,” Bradamant said.

“Bradamant,” Irene smiled thinly. “How did you know I was here?”

“Yes, Irene, how did I _ever_ deduce that you were in the world where you’ve been posted as Librarian-in-Residence?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “I meant _here_ , in this pub.”

“Ah.” Bradamant tipped her head towards the balcony. “Morgan followed you.”

Irene looked over the balcony. Morgan was at the bar, dressed in a new knee-length frock coat not unlike one Vale might wear, speaking to a handsome young man with auburn hair and dark glasses. They wore it well, although it echoed Irene’s own sentiment that she was not a role model when it came to fashion. Morgan saw her looking, and gave her a bright, cheerful wave.

“Morgan’s _your_ junior, then,” Irene mused. “She seems-”

“‘They’, if you please,” Bradamant cut in.

“Excuse me. They seem nice. Certainly not lacking in, ah, enthusiasm.”

“Certainly not.”

Bradamant took Irene’s glass and downed her measure of brandy, to Irene’s chagrin. Seeing the look she was giving her, Bradamant tipped the bottle of brandy and refilled the glass.

After a lengthy silence, Bradamant exhaled, holding her hands up peaceably.

“I’m not here to fight,” Bradamant said. Irene warily met her eyes.

“You’re out in the field again,” Irene said tentatively, retrieving her glass. “And with a new trainee. I thought you were spending some time in the Library.”

“As Kostchei’s secretary? Taking notes, filing reports?” Bradamant almost snorted. “That arrangement wasn’t working out for either of us. Now that you’ve oh-so-gallantly saved the Library from whatever calamity Alberich was about to bring down on our heads, Kostchei decided to let me off the leash.”

“Because for you, babysitting is as much a punishment as paperwork,” Irene said, taking a sip and relishing the annoyed quirk of Bradamant’s eyebrow.

“I’m not here just to talk shop, you know,” Bradamant muttered.

“Then why are you here?” Irene asked. She drained her glass, and reluctantly handed it over.

“It won’t do for a lady to drink alone,” Bradamant smiled, pouring herself another measure of brandy. “That’s how you get yourself a reputation. You’ve already got yourself a reputation for going on adventures, and you _know_ what they say about women adventurers in London.”

Irene did indeed know what Londoners said about ‘women adventurers’. More shocking than that, however, was the audacious, nagging feeling that Bradamant might be _flirting_ with her.

Of course, that might just be the brandy.

“Bradamant,” Irene said softly, studying the other woman in the dim lamplight. “Why are you _really_ here?”

“To talk,” Bradamant said. “Can’t we just talk?”

A fair question. A simple question, really, but one with a not-so-simple answer. Irene and Bradamant had a complicated history. Any relationship has its highs and lows, but six months ago, Bradamant had seen fit to stick a needle of curare into Irene’s neck and leave her paralyzed in a closet while Bradamant took credit for her work- hardly the best of terms. The Bradamant sitting here in front of her now, having a civil conversation over a bottle of brandy? This was a Bradamant that Irene scarcely recognized.

Irene studied Bradamant in the lamplight, scrutinizing her expression, tracing the knife-line of her jaw, her lips, to the glass in her hand, searching for the warning signs, the hidden motives.

There were many things knife-like about Bradamant, but somehow, somehow, this felt different.

This felt genuine.

Bradamant lifted her hand and drained her glass, still awaiting Irene’s response, her eyes catching the light like embers.

“Irene?” She asked, more gently than she’d ever heard Bradamant speak.

Irene sighed.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Irene said, retrieving her glass, “I think I’d rather just drink.”

~*~

So they drank, sharing the glass and the bottle between them. And, despite Irene’s misgivings, they talked. They talked about work. They talked about liquor. They talked about books. Irene was surprised to find herself opening up to Bradamant, though she supposed the liquor was loosening her tongue. She spent a great deal of time telling Bradamant about Kai’s abduction in Venice, about breaking into the Carceri to save him, about the confrontation with Lord Guantes in the opera house. She told her about how she used the Language to re-shape the myth of The Horse and the Rider, and had gotten the Horse to aid in their escape. She told her about how, pursued by a multitude of Fae in the space between the worlds, she had invoked the name of a high dragon, escaping by the skin of their teeth and the beating of mighty wings.

Bradamant, for her part, almost seemed impressed. At the very least, she seemed annoyed that she had no comparable exploits to mention, being cooped up in the Library simply filing paperwork.

Irene told her about the debacle with Alberich and the confrontation in his phantom-domain. And, to Irene’s own surprise, she told Bradamant about Zayanna- how the Fae had swung, like a pendulum, between friend, accomplice, traitor, and something in between. She told Bradamant about how they met in Venice when Irene was still undercover, how she’d pitied Zayanna’s circumstances. She told her about how, yes, Zayanna had tried to kill her on Alberich’s behalf, but Zayanna also led her to Alberich’s domain, and died saving Irene from his wrath.

She told Bradamant about how strangely Zayanna’s death had hurt, about how much she wanted to mourn a Fae. And a part of her, deep down, wondered if Bradamant might take Irene’s sympathy for a Faerie and use it as grounds to charge her for treason against the Library. At the very least, Irene expected Bradamant to lambast her for thinking, even for a moment, that she could trust a Fae. Irene cringed, abruptly regretting the alcohol-fueled confession that led to this point, waiting for Bradamant to tear into her, not even knowing if she’d be wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Bradamant said instead. “She sounded like a friend.”

“Except she wasn’t, though,” Irene said. “She just thought it was all a game. Alberich threatening the Library was just a game. Leading me to his domain was just a game. Even when she was dying, even when-”

 _Her blood was on my hands_ , Irene thought.

“-even then, she thought it was all a game.”

“She was in a story,” Bradamant said gently. “Like any Fae. It just wasn’t the story she thought it was. She thought she could be your nemesis, your rival. Someone to challenge, someone to push to new heights.”

There was a strange note to Bradamant’s voice, Irene thought, but she shook the notion aside.

“She was your friend,” Bradamant shrugged. “In her way.”

“I don’t think that’s what she was,” Irene mused.

“She was something, then,” Bradamant said, gazing down into her glass. “A maybe. An almost. She was something, or you wanted her to be.”

“I don’t even know what I want,” Irene admitted.

Bradamant shrugged. “Love?”

Irene cringed. A single word, in Bradamant’s voice, called up a memory from what felt like a lifetime ago…

_“Don’t you dare tell **me** you don’t have enough! You want to complain because your parents are too distant, or Coppelia is too cold, or you’re still just a little cog in the Library’s vast machine? There are some people in this world, **junior** Irene, who would **kill** to have ‘problems’ like yours! Spend a few years hungry, or out in the snow. Then come to me and tell me you want more!”_

Irene remembered what she’d said, back then. She’d asked Bradamant if she’d rehearsed that, or if she’d read it in a book. Needless to say, that didn’t help things. That was their first big fight, one that would be only the first of many. Irene let out a shuddering breath, and pushed the memory away.

“Then again, there’s always the chance you’re mistaking adrenaline for some other feeling,” Bradamant was saying.

Irene suddenly stood up, her chair scraping back. Bradamant looked up at her.

“Something wrong, darling?”

Irene flinched at the word. A sudden anxiety knotted in her chest. “I, um…”

Irene’s gaze flitted around the room, spotting a side door that led out onto a terrace.

“...I need some air,” Irene said, finally. She poured a last measure of brandy into her glass, downed it in one go, and then slapped the glass onto the counter and stalked away.

~*~

_“You have a house, if not a home. You have people who care for you, if not about you. You may not have everything you want, but I’d wager you have everything you could ever **need** , and you have the audacity to claim it all forfeit because it is not love.”_

_\- V.E. Schwab_

~*~

The moon over Vale’s London was bright and clear, undimmed by smog or the shadows of moored airships. Perhaps too bright and too clear, Irene thought, but then, that would handily explain all the werewolves. She emerged onto the terrace and let the cool evening air kiss her face, leaning on a balcony rail.

There was something about this world, deep in the fabric of it, that set it apart from the Library. It was louder, of course, and smoggier, more crowded. But there was more to it than that.

Time did not pass in the Library. The Library was a place of stillness, of preservation. They say that there, you can live forever, but your wounds will never heal. Your body will be preserved, frozen in time.

Irene wondered if the same principle applied to the mind. What if the timelessness of the Library effected more than just your body? In the Library, you do not age, and you do not heal. Do you learn? Do you grow? Does pain fade? Does grief soften? Does anger dim?

That would mean that Coppelia will be perpetually obtuse, and Kostchei will forever be stiff and humorless. And Bradamant…

“Enjoying the view?” Bradamant asked.

“Yes,” Irene said, pointedly staring down at the street and not at the other woman slinking up beside her. “If you’ll excuse me, Bradamant, I was having a bottle epiphany.”

“Have you finally resolved to desert the Library and elope with your apprentice?”

“No,” Irene hissed. She sighed. “Bradamant, why are you _really_ here?”

“You keep asking that,” Bradamant huffed. “What’s so unthinkable about a drink between friends?”

“Is _that_ what we are?”

Bradamant stared at her, looking, for all the world, genuinely hurt. Irene bit her lip and turned away.

“I told you, I’m not here to fight,” Bradamant said stiffly. “Would I lie to you?”

Irene answered with a bark of pained, bitter laughter. Bradamant balled her fists, finally grabbing Irene by the shoulder and whirling her around to face her.

“Damn it, Irene!” Bradamant snarled. “Believe it or not, I’m _trying_ to be honest here! I’m trying to _tell_ you something!”

“Then _say_ it!”

“I loved you!”

Irene stared at her, the anger dying in her throat.

“What?” Irene whispered.

“ **I loved you** ,” Bradamant echoed in the Language, and the truth of it swept across Irene like a tidal wave. The Language could not speak a lie. “A long time ago, before it got twisted into this poisonous, monstrous envy. You said you wanted to go back to us not quite hating each other, right? Well, I want to go back further- to when we were both young, and eager to do the Library’s work. Before it became about the prestige. Before the Elders started singing the praises of my apprentice, Irene the prodigy, rising star of the Library. Before envy smothered any affection I had for you.”

“Bradamant…” Irene gaped. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then be quiet for a moment, would you?” Bradamant huffed. “The point is, I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to try to reconnect. To extend an olive branch, if you would.”

“A peace offering?” Irene blinked. “You stole my brandy!”

“Because we’re both _such_ paragons of social interaction, Irene!” Bradamant snapped. She sighed, exasperated. “Listen, Irene. I came here because seeing you moping around the Library was becoming a nuisance. I thought I’d try to put a stop to it. That’s all. And if anyone asks what I was doing offworld, I’ll tell them I was on assignment, and consulting this alternate’s Librarian-in-Residence.”

Bradamant spun on her heel, ready to storm away from this mess of a conversation.

It occurred to Irene that she could just let Bradamant leave, and their relationship, frayed as it was, would be preserved as it was right here in this moment, in all its barbs and bitterness. 

No. That would not do.

“Bradamant,” Irene called, stopping her at the door. “ **Thank you**.”

The Language coiled in the air around them, its power resonating like a warm breeze, or an embrace. Bradamant took a deep breath, tentatively turning and meeting Irene’s eyes.

“We should do this again,” Irene said simply, the tension between them dissipating on the wind.

“We should,” Bradamant mused. “Maybe next time, I’ll even bring my own glass.”

“I wish you’d said something,” Irene shrugged. “Before.”

“You were my student. It would have been unprofessional.”

“I’m not your student anymore.”

“No," Bradamant smiled. “You're not. Good night, Irene.”

“Good night, Bradamant,” Irene said, warmer than she’d been in months. “I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, too,” Bradamant returned. “I’ll see you at work.”

~*~

Kai was sitting at the bar, discussing the finer points of men’s fashion with Morgan while they stared, wide-eyed, and nursed a glass of cranberry juice. When he saw Bradamant coming down the steps, he stood, and acknowledged her with a polite dip of his head.

“Lady,” he said.

“Princeling,” she replied. “Here to offer Irene a shoulder to lean on? Perhaps a nice, sculpted pectoral?”

“Only if she wouldn’t prefer something softer,” Kai grinned.

“Cheeky,” Bradamant said, bringing a hand to her chest. She raised her other hand and beckoned towards the door. “Come along, Morgan.”

As the duo disappeared out onto the street, Kai made his way upstairs. He stepped out onto the terrace, the evening air a relief compared to the pub’s stuffy interior. But more of a relief was the sight of Irene, on her feet and in relatively high spirits. Woozy and leaning on a balcony rail was certainly better than drinking alone in the dark. 

“Bradamant seems downright _tolerable_ ,” Kai said, by way of greeting. “What’s gotten into her?”

“Half a bottle of my brandy,” Irene said, not unkindly. She took a step towards Kai and wobbled precariously. He darted forward to steady her.

“I can imagine where the other half went,” Kai muttered, curling an arm around Irene’s waist and helping her lean on his shoulder.

Despite the moment she’d had with Bradamant earlier, it seemed that the liquor was finally starting to catch up to Irene. Irene wondered about the Library’s timelessness and its effect upon Librarian’s alcohol tolerance. Maybe that was something worth looking into.

“Come on,” Kai said beside her, steadying her, both body and mind. “One step at a time.”

Irene considered that. In the Library, time stood still, and wounds did not heal. But here she was, putting one foot in front of the other. Vale would be waiting in the carriage, no doubt with an itinerary of more work to be done. Bradamant would be lurking nearby, keeping her distance, but never too far away. And Kai would be here, right here, ready to catch her if she falls.

Time was ticking forward, and they were moving forward, one step, one confession, one job at a time.

Irene didn’t drink too often. But as far as bottle epiphanies went, well, that was a solid one.

“So drunk you won’t even talk, huh?” Kai tutted. “Come on, Irene. Let’s get you home.”

“I think home is something you take with you,” Irene said, halfway between a daze and truly heartfelt. “Not somewhere you go.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

“I read it in a book,” Irene mumbled sleepily. “I might not be remembering it right.”

“We’ll look it up in the morning, then,” Kai said. “Let’s go home.”

The Library is an island, untouched by time. They say that there, you can live forever, but your wounds will never heal. But out here, time was ticking forward, slowly but surely, each passing second a heartbeat, a footstep, a confession, or a promise.

~*~

_“I think that Hell is something you take with you. Not somewhere you go.”_

_\- Neil Gaiman_

~*~


End file.
